Snow White Snow Red
by SunWillRise2340
Summary: Snow White - the story of a girl and a poisoned apple, a wicked stepmother and seven dwarves. Let me tell you. There were never seven dwarves. And Snow White was not really called Snow White. The Brothers Grimm got the rest right, but to know the real story, look right here. AU.
1. The Beginning

**A/N **Yet another cracky idea I got. Bear with me on other stories, new inspiration is flooding in and I'm just going with the flow. Ideas and suggestions are very helpful, and thank you to VivaLaVida1704 who put up with me babbling about this story in lunch-break today.

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**Part One**

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Once below a time, in a land not that far away, there lived a Good King and a Beautiful Queen named Gustave and Antoinette. They were very young when they married, as is the way of things, in a beautiful ceremony of white rose petals and flute music.

It was a marriage arranged by their fathers, but soon after, they fell in love, and not long after Gustave became King, Antoinette announced that she was going to have a baby.

The child was born in midwinter, when snow was drifting from iron grey clouds, and the icy winter wind howled outside the walls of the castle. Nevertheless, the village at the foot of the battlements built a huge bonfire and set off fireworks in honour of the royal birth, dancing until their feet blistered and their hands were chapped with cold.

The princess was the most beautiful baby that had ever been born, declared her proud parents. With a small face peeking out of soft white blankets, and a shock of hair that was neither brown nor gold nor black but the strangest mixture of all three, her gummy smiles won over the hearts of everyone in the castle, from the lowliest spit boy to the mother of the King herself.

"She shall be called Christine," Queen Antoinette smiled weakly as she cradled her daughter, propped up by fluffy pillows in the great bed of state. But, as normally happens, the baby's real name was pushed aside in favour of a nickname. The commons called her Snow White, since she was the fairest babe in all the land, and born on a night when the snow tumbled from the sky.

But with great joy often comes great sadness, and it was only days later when Queen Antoinette succumbed to the childbed fever that claimed so many new mothers. The King was heartbroken, and wept over his wife's body, the tears falling on her still, cold cheeks and their squalling daughter held tightly in his arms.

The whole land mourned for the beautiful, kind queen who had always had a smile for anyone who visited her and a magic way of solving anyone's problems, be it illness or strife or feud.

When Princess Christine, or Snow White, as we should refer to her, reached the tender age of two years, the King's mother decided that the child needed a real mother, and searched the kingdoms around for a suitable woman to marry her still-grieving son.

In the Kingdom of Opera, the other side of the great land, the King and Queen had five beautiful daughters, and it was the youngest that the mother of King Gustave settled on for the next Queen of Garnier.

The Princess Carlotta arrived in a swirl of red silk and trumpets, her crimson-painted lips curved up to reveal straight white teeth. King Gustave had his doubts, but as his mother was old, he humoured her, kissing the Princess' hand and promising to marry her within the week.

Then he called for his small daughter, Snow White, to be brought in by her nurses, and he watched with what could have been approval as his bride-to-be gathered the cherub-faced little girl into her arms, and cooed over her angelic prettiness and pretty smile.

They were happy together, well, as happy as can be when the husband is still sad over the death of his first and most beloved wife. Carlotta settled into her role as Queen, mothering little Snow White with fond affection and putting on gentle smiles for her weary husband.

With Snow White's third winter, an illness broke out in the castle, first claiming the King's mother, and then the King himself. Carlotta adopted an air of inconsolable grief, dressing herself and the little princess in deepest black mourning attire, and wailing at the end of her dead husband's bed.

But, as things go, she was secretly pleased to be rid of a husband who, whilst kind to her, had never been much more than an old bore, and talked to the folk of the towns more than she cared for, playing his violin for anyone to hear. She had been brought up by a grasping mother with a fondness for power as one might have a fondness for pastries, and despised the common people with all her heart. Carlotta, who took after her mother, rather liked having regency of the kingdom, and was determined to keep it that way, pushing the little Princess Snow White out of her place in the succession.

She handed the child over to a mother in the village who already had five children, and whilst providing a measly stipend for Snow White's clothes, pushed the girl out of her life. The child was heartbroken over the death of her dearest papa, and sobbed for weeks and weeks into the little blanket her surrogate mother had made for her.

Mistress Sorelli was a kind woman who had once been a dancer in the big town miles north of the castle, and had taught all of her children, three girls and two boys to dance with varying degrees of success. Little Snow White, or Christine as was her real name, took to dancing like a duck to water, even though she was all elbows and knees and not that much grace at all.

So the little girl grew up, knowing she was a princess but not knowing exactly what that was…and it was not long before she caught her former stepmother's attention once more…


	2. The Mirror

**A/N** Thank you for the reviews, lovely people. Gold star to everyone who reviewed.

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**Part Two**

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"Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" the Queen of Garnier was lazing languidly on her bed, her red hair tumbling elegantly over an embroidered silk nightgown. It had become a habit of hers, to ask this magic mirror purchased from a man who thought himself a warlock who was the most beautiful in the land.

Since the death of her husband, and the usurpation of little Princess Christine Snow-White, she had become more and more vain, taxing her land into starvation and buying horrifically gaudy gowns and large, flash jewels to show off to handsome young men who served at her table.

For the past fourteen years, the mirror mounted on the wall of her pink bedchamber had dutifully replied that she, the queen, was the fairest in the land with her milk-white skin, generous curves and pouting mouth. But today, with the weak winter sunlight playing on the jewels arrayed on her dressing table, the mirror said in an uncertain voice, "The Princess Snow White is the fairest in the land."

Queen Carlotta stared at the mirror in horror. "What did you say?" she demanded, and the mirror began to tremble, reflections rippling across its surface.

"Your Most Royal Majesty, The Princess Christine, who is called Snow White by the people, she is the fairest in the land."

Carlotta let out a screech that sent pigeons fluttering in a panic from the castle roof, picking up a pillow and flinging it at her mirror. "No, it can't be true, it isn't true! I am the fairest in the land, not that little slut!"

It may be pointed out that she did not even know what Snow White looked like, having never set eyes on the girl since she sent her to live with Mistress Sorelli.

The Queen raged for several hours, throwing dresses to the floor and sending jewels tumbling out of the window where they were snatched by greedy magpies and desperate village folk, shouting at her servants to leave her alone.

All too soon, her murderous anger had turned to a cool, calculating calm, and she called for her chief huntsman, a man named Ubaldo Piangi who was famed for having a fine tenor voice as well as a steady aim with a bow.

Her silk robe trailed behind her as he was ushered into the room, bowing flamboyantly and murmuring obsequious phrases. "Shut up," the Queen said rudely. "I have a request to make of you."

"What is it, oh most beautiful Majesty," he knelt at her feet, small blue eyes looking up into her own.

The Queen smiled, and later Piangi would say that he had never seen such a wicked expression cross anyone's face before, and that it chilled his blood to see such a happy expression turned into something so evil upon her crimson lips.

"I want you," she purred, tilting his chin up with one finger. "To kill the girl the stupid village folk call Snow White. Take her out into the woods, and stab her. I want her heart skewered on your knife and brought to me on a silver platter."

Piangi swallowed. For all the fact he was a huntsman, he had a kind heart, and did not relish the task of killing a girl who could be no more than seventeen years of age. But to defy the Queen was to die a horrific death, and truth be told, he was a little bit of a coward as well. So he agreed, and the Queen dismissed him, bidding him to do the deed that night.

He took his sharpest knife and stowed it into his belt, wrapping a thick, fur-lined cloak around his body and pulling up the hood to obscure his face, he made the trek across the icy drawbridge and into the village.

He quickly found the dwelling of Mistress Sorelli and her five children, and knocked on the door. It was opened by a slender woman shivering in homespun, with age lines around her forehead and eyes. "'Ow can I help you, Sirrah?" she made a curtsey, taking in the richness of his cloak.

"I have come for the girl. The little Princess."

"Oh, 'ave you come to bring 'er back to the castle? Christine? Christine, girl, where are ya?"

Piangi didn't have the heart to tell her the truth, so he just nodded, gripping his cloak tighter around himself.

A sweet voice echoed from inside the house. "I'm here, Mama. What do you need of me?"

"A gentleman 'as come to take ya back to the castle, my darlin. Get your ol' cloak and boots, 'ere, let me 'elp ya. Ya'll be a real princess now, darlin, we'll 'ave to bow and scrape to ya…"

The woman moved back inside the house, still chattering away, and Piangi hovered awkwardly by the door, guilt wracking him for the deed he was about to commit.

Finally, a girl swathed in a long, patched chestnut brown cloak appeared, worn brown boots adorning her dainty feet. Piangi could only stare. She truly was the most beautiful girl he'd ever set eyes on – not cruelly beautiful like the Queen who spent all day primping and pampering, this girl was beautiful in a careless way, her dark brown-black hair escaping a braid and large dark eyes seeming too big for the fragile frame of her face.

"Come with me, lady princess," he said gruffly.

"Goodbye, Mama," a tear trickled down the girl's cheek as she embraced the slender woman. "I love you."

"Ah love ya too, my darlin. Remember us won't ya?"

"You raised me, Mama. I won't ever forget you, and when I see the Queen, I'll ask if you can live in the castle with us and never have to worry ever again."

"Ya're a good girl," the woman dabbed at her eyes, embracing the girl who'd been her daughter for so many years. "I'll see ya soon."

She shut the door as Piangi offered an arm to the girl, as though they were out walking in the sunshine, rather than leading her to her death in the snowy winter woods.

"This way, my lady," he said, as they began to walk into the woods. Snow White began to tremble.

"This isn't the way to the castle, Sirrah," she hitched up the hem of her cloak. "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you the long route," he lied through his teeth. "The Queen wanted extra time to make sure everything is ready for you."

"Oh," the princess said. His reasons made sense, and although his body language told her something else entirely, his words were kind and she was a girl given to trusting.

They walked deeper and deeper into the woods, and more doubts began to form in Snow White's head, but she pushed them aside. _I'm being silly, _she told herself, as if there was nothing wrong with walking in the woods with a strange man when night was about to fall.

Eventually, a clearing loomed up ahead of them and with sudden, surprising strength, Piangi forced her against a tree and brought out his knife, holding it to her slender neck. She screamed, but his weight was pressing into her and she could hardly breathe.

"You're…you're not taking me to the palace, are you?" her teeth were chattering with cold and fear as she stared up into the suddenly icy blue eyes of the huntsman. "You're going to kill me."

This accusation pierced Piangi's heart, and he stepped back, dropping the knife upon the floor. "I can't," he whispered to himself. Then louder. "I can't."

Her little hands clenched into fists as he turned away, the fingers white. "Can you take me home, now?" she asked, her voice plaintive in the still night air.

He rounded on her. "Don't you understand, little princess?" he demanded bitterly. "You can never go home. Never. The Queen would order your death the minute she saw you, and believe me, if she gets her hands on you, you'll be begging for the mercy of my knife."

Snow White began to cry, dropping her face into her hands. "What am I to do?" she whimpered.

"Run," he told her. "Run and run until you leave the kingdom and don't ever come back."

"What will you do?"

"I'll find a way of convincing the Queen that you're dead," he said grimly. "A deer's heart should suffice."

"A deer's heart…" Snow White stared at him.

"Go now," he snapped. "Go on, run."

With a sob, she gathered up her skirts, and the sodden end of her cloak and began to run, tripping over the laces of her boots as she stumbled away into the never-ending night of the forest, thin branches stinging across her face.

The next morning, Piangi presented the Queen with a deer's heart, and, not knowing what a heart looked like since she did not possess one, Carlotta rejoiced, putting on her gaudiest gown and inviting a handsome young man to her bed to celebrate her victory.


	3. The Stranger

**A/N **Thank you for all the reviews! They made me smile! :)

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**Part Three**

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Snow White ran and ran for what seemed like days on end, but was really only until the early hours of the morning, when ghosts walk amongst the trees and animals howl in the distance. Her heart was breaking from terror and sadness and tears blurred her vision so that she didn't notice the little house until she bumped into the wall.

With frozen fingers, she groped for the door which swung open on well-oiled hinges, too tired and cold to care what lay inside.

A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and the table was set for one with a loaf of bread and a pat of butter sitting in front of a china plate. A piano was pushed into the corner of the room, and sheet music was scattered across the top of it like confetti at a wedding.

She sank onto the elegant red-velvet divan, holding her fingers by the fire to warm them. _This is the grandest place I've ever been, _she thought to herself, not remembering the castle of her infancy.

The warmth of the fire and the comfort of the red velvet beneath her body caused a sense of immense sleepiness to overcome her, and, taking off her boots, she cuddled into her wet cloak and fell fast asleep.

It felt like she'd only been asleep for minutes when she jerked back into wakefulness as a door slammed from the back of the house. Trembling with fear, she slowly sat upright, clutching her cloak tightly to her body.

"Hello?" she called tentatively. "Hello?"

"Who's there?" someone growled, and she let out a scream as an almost-shadow with a white mask across his face appeared in the doorway, a length of thin rope held in elegant hands.

"I'm sorry, Sirrah," she shrank back against the cushions. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come into your house, it's just I was so scared and cold, and it was so warm in here that I just fell asleep…"

He held up a hand and she lapsed into silence, meeting a pair of startlingly amber eyes that contrasted starkly with the bone-colour of the leather covering his face and the jet-blackness of his hair.

"Who are you?" she shivered as the melodic sound of his voice washed over her, comforting and threatening at the same time.

"Christine, sir, but people call me Princess Snow White," she trembled as he took a few long strides towards her, kneeling down on the wooden floor.

"Do not be afraid of me, Christine Snow White," he said. "What brings you here – it is the middle of the night."

"A man…he took me out into the forest and almost killed me, but then he told me to run," tears tremble on her eyelashes, waiting to fall in a cascade of pearls down her ivory skin.

"Who sent the man?" he stared at her for a second, taking in the red stripes across her cheeks where branches had struck the tender face, the light of fear slowly dying from her silver-flecked eyes.

"I think it was the Queen, Sirrah," she murmured, lowering her gaze shyly. "Though I do not know what I have done to warrant her anger."

He grimaced, knowing all too well the whims of Queen Carlotta of Garnier, the daughter of the woman who had made his life hell. This sweet little creature had aroused her jealousy, and if the Queen had grown up anything like her mother, the object of her jealousy would be the most unfortunate person in the kingdom.

Gathering up the tattered remains of her courage, she looked up at him briefly. "What is your name, Sirrah?"

He stood, abruptly. "My name is Erik, Princess."

"Can I stay here with you, Sirrah Erik? The huntsman told me to run and keep running, but I ran for hours and I don't know where I am…"

"This house is near the border between the lands of Garnier and Chagny," he told her shortly.

"Chagny…oh, I remember the Princes from there. They used to play with me when I was little, before my Papa died…" she clapped her hands to her mouth, and he felt the first stirrings of tenderness in his heart for this lost girl. This poor little lost girl, princess or not, who had turned up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, just like he had done so many years ago to the previous owner of this house.

"You must have clean clothes, if you are to stay," he said. "You will catch a chill from those wet garments if you remain in them much longer."

"Thank you," she whispered, looking down at the clasped hands in her lap. "Oh thank you."

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Later, clad in a nightgown and robe that Sirrah Erik said belonged to the daughter of the house many years ago, Christine sat in front of the fire, brushing out her tangled hair. The man himself was sitting at his piano, notes spilling into the warm, smoke-scented air, notes so beautiful that Christine tipped her head back against the divan, pausing in her task to listen.

After a while, his hands came sharply down on the keys, discordant notes echoing and she started, jerked out of her trance. "That will not do," he muttered to himself, and then there was the sound of a quill scribbling.

Braiding her hair with skilful fingers, Christine scrambled to her feet, padding over to the piano. "You play delightfully," she said shyly, and he turned, startled to face her.

"Thank you," he turned back to the piano guardedly, the visible side of his face pulled down in a frown.

"My sister played the flute," she continued. "But the Queen's soldiers snapped it when she dared to play it too near the Queen's window. Tia was heartbroken."

"Your sister, another princess?" he asked cautiously, looking down at a golden ring set with three black stones upon his middle finger.

"No, my adopted sister. I was sent to live with them when I was a child," she told him. He envied her trusting innocence, the way she seemed so happy to talk about her family, her childhood, to compliment him and engage him in conversation.

It had been a long time since anyone had ever overcome their fear of him to do that.


	4. The Songbird

Thank you for reviews - :) I've been writing a little in my notebook, so here's the product of that. Enjoy.

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**Part Four**

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Weeks passed in a flurry of melting snow and spring flowers pushing their shoots tentatively above the dark, sticky earth. With the spring came a familiarity between the runaway princess and the masked man as normally does after a winter trapped inside by the flickering fire.

As spring rain fell from the clouds in place of lattices of ice, Erik began spending more and more time out of doors, working away in the woods on something which he would not disclose to Christine, no matter how hard she tried to pester it out of him.

One day, he was walking home with his shirtsleeves carelessly rolled up under the weak yellow sunshine when he heard it, a voice falling through the air, clear as a bell and light as a feather. He stopped, hands falling to his sides as the voice soared. Who could it be?

Christine. It had to be her; no-one else had ventured into this part of the forest in the longest time.

His feet carried him forward and the door opened of its own free will, though it must have been his hand that pushed it. She was sweeping the flagstoned floor, her hair frizzing uncontrollably about her face and a tear in the corner of her apron.

"Why did you never say you sang?" he demanded, and she let out a squeak, dropping her broom with a clatter.

"I…I…" she stuttered, a blush staining her pale cheeks.

"Why?"

She raised her head and met his gaze. "It never came up," she mumbled, shrugging gracefully. "I like to sing."

"Did no-one tell you that you have the voice of an _angel_?" his own voice was hoarse, and he sank onto the divan. She shook her head.

"I didn't ever think I was any good," she said, hiding behind her hair, suddenly shy in under his burning amber stare.

"Not good….Christine," he sighed. "My dear, you need practise, but you are already more than good."

"Will you teach me, then?" she asked, eager, and he felt his heart leap a little at her tone. She was asking _him _to help her, to teach her, to impart his knowledge of music.

"If you wish," he murmured, and when a smile lit up her beautiful face like he sun, he found himself mirroring the smile, happiness beginning to heal the cracks in his heart.

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As spring turned to summer, Erik taught Christine how to let her voice soar like a bird over snow-capped mountains, eventually bringing out some of his own compositions so beautiful that she gasped in delight as he played them for her, cried with joy as she sang.

It was around this time that, far away in the castle, Queen Carlotta remembered her magic mirror, hanging on the south wall of her bedchamber.

Twirling in front of it, the skirts of her sparkling silver gown swirling out from her corseted waist and jewels glittering at her throat and in her ears, she asked the mirror:

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?"

The mirror began to tremble and Carlotta pouted. "Mirror, I asked you. Who is the fairest in the land?"

"Christine Snow-White," the mirror choked out, and Carlotta shrieked in rage.

"But she's dead, she's dead! My huntsman killed her – MEG!" she screamed and her little blonde maid slipped into the room, a sapphire necklace draped over her hands from where she was cleaning it.

"Yes, Majesty?" she asked, sighing internally. This, of course, was Carlotta's third tantrum in less than a week.

"Fetch Piangi," the Queen snapped, and the little maid sighed.

"Majesty, Piangi is dead. He died in the plague last winter."

Carlotta picked up her jewelled box and threw it at Meg, missing by an inch. Meg shifted on her feet, tired lines at the corners of her eyes. "Will that be all, Majesty?"

"No!" Carlotta wailed. "Tell the herald to send out a proclamation to all the sorcerers in the kingdom, and summon them to the castle. NOW!"

The little maid turned back towards the door, dropping a curtsey to her mistress when Carlotta turned around, an evil smile playing around her lips. "And prepare a room for Prince Raoul of Chagny," she ordered, suddenly saccharine. "He arrives tonight."


	5. The Ribbon

**A/N **Hey, another chapter here. This is my favourite so far. Thank you for all the reviews! I should have done this before, but. hem hem: Neither Phantom of the Opera nor Snow White belong to me. There done. Also just read I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith - excellent book, but a bit slow to start. Anyway, on with the story.

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**Part Five**

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The Prince arrived at the castle when the sun was sinking over the horizon in a clattering cavalcade of carriages and cantering horses swathed in blue silk (since blue was the colour of the land of Chagny).

Queen Carlotta stood on the stone steps, her copper hair cascading in careless curls over her golden mantle, pulled tight to emphasise her beautiful figure. Meg waited to one side, waving an ostrich-plumed fan with her eyes downcast as ordered by the Queen. But, because Meg had a rebellious spirit, she glanced up beneath her lashes as the Prince dismounted from his chestnut stallion and ascended the steps, golden hair tousled from the long journey and cerulean eyes sparkling with something that could have been mirth as Carlotta began to gush.

When the Queen turned away to lead the Prince into the arched entrance of the Great Hall, he shot a sidelong smile at Meg as she rushed to pick up the royal train, as though the two were sharing a private joke. Heat stained her cheeks red, and she looked away, the golden _fleur-de-lis _on the robe rubbing the palms of her hands.

Later, in the Royal Bedchamber, Carlotta sat before the mirror whilst Meg brushed her hair. "He is _so _handsome and charming," Carlotta sighed. Meg blushed as she remembered that secret smile curving the corners of his lips, and the laughter in his eyes, but when Carlotta frowned at the pinkness of her maid's cheeks, Meg ducked her head, concentrating on her task.

"And such a fit match for me," Carlotta stood, tossing her hair and Meg scurried to lace the strings of pearls around the Queen's pale throat, all the while thinking that Prince Raoul was far too good for the likes of the Queen.

"The sorcerers are here, Majesty," the door creaked open, and the head of the Queen's viceroy, a portly, lecherous individual by the name of Buquet appeared around the door as though it did not possess a body. He gave Meg a look, and she shuddered, knowing all too well what the said individual would like to do to her.

"Yes, yes," Carlotta smiled, cruel, and swept out of the door held open for her, throwing a list of orders to Meg over her shoulder.

Once the door had closed, the little maid sighed and shook her head in despair. Poor Christine, her poor, dear sister. You see, Meg was the eldest daughter of Mistress Sorelli and the closest in age to the orphaned princess. They had become such close friends that when she heard of Christine's death, she had wept bitter, salty tears into her starched cotton pillow.

But now the truth of Christine's continued existence had filtered through the castle like rose-water into a crystal perfume bottle and Meg could only dare to hope that Carlotta did not find out.

But she did. And wherever Christine was, she was in grave danger.

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It was late-after-noon and warm yellow sunshine was streaming through the windows of the little cottage, setting the dust-motes to spinning as Christine placed a cracked glass of large, white daisies on the table. Dinner was cooking, the birds were singing and Erik had promised a surprise when he returned from the cool embrace of the leafy forest.

It was a happy day.

There was a knock at the door, and Christine dusted the flour off her hands. It was too early to be Erik, but he had, in passing, mentioned a friend living in the border town of Lair which straddled the line between Chagny and Garnier in neat rows of thatched cottages and glowing lamps. Maybe it was this elusive friend.

She cracked the door open, and peered around its comforting wooden solidity.

"Miss, would you like to buy a ribbon?" the girl wrapped in a tattered green shawl looked only to be about nine-years-old (if only Christine had known there were such things as appearance-changing potions).

The girl at the door let ribbons in all different colours spill over her spindly fingers, and the thought crossed Christine's mind that Erik always complained about the mess of compositions by the piano, and how there was never a way to sort them. But if she bound them up in bright ribbon…

"I'll have these ones," she selected several, letting the colours slide over her hands. Peacock blue. Emerald green. Sunset gold. Palest pink. Jet black.

She was about to find a few coins extra for the girl who looked in need of a decent meal when the child cried out," Oh, I am so forgetful. Mistress, I have a girdle-ribbon in a colour that would bring the moonshine out in your eyes!"

And before Christine could even react, the girl had taken a sparkling silver and luxurious cream satin girdle from her basket. "Please can I see what it looks like on you, for I have never known a woman to suit it before," the girl begged.

Smiling at the enthusiasm in the girl's eyes, Christine nodded. "Alright, then," she murmured, not seeing the harm in trying on a pretty girdle like other girls her age would do without a second thought.

The girl wrapped the girdle about Christine's slender waist, tugging it into a knot.

With a faint cry of surprise, Christine fell backwards into the house, cracking her head on the floor and lying still, silent, like a doll thrown down by an angry child.

The girl-vendor merely laughed, and went on her way. The Queen would be pleased.

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There was a lingering smell of burning hanging around the house when Erik returned from his labours, tired, and ready for a good meal and the sight of Christine's beautiful silver-flecked eyes lighting up with childish excitement at the parcel held underneath his arm.

He opened the door, and his heart stopped there and then on the threshold of his house. Christine, lying on the floor. Eyes closed. Unmoving. No.

He fell to his knees beside her, the parcel landing with a thump at his side. He shook her, shouted, felt for a pulse in the delicate neck but was met with despairing nothingness.

Pain and rage tore their sharp claws into his slowly-healing heart, and just as years rose to swim in his golden eyes, he noticed the new cream and silver girdle fastened tightly around the mossy cotton of Christine's dress. That beautiful object had certainly _not _come from the clothes Luciana had left behind in the old oak chest among the cobwebs in the attic.

With trembling fingers, he tugged at the knot, pulling it this way and that until it began to fray and come loose. Not that taking off the girdle would do any good. Christine was dead.

The satin slithered to the floor, and Erik looked away from the body of his beautiful protégée and friend…

A soft moan sounded in the silence, and Erik's head whipped around to see eyelashes fluttering up to reveal those dark eyes that had never looked more beautiful.

"Christine," he whispered reverently, hope surging painfully in his chest, and she blinked at him, much like a young fawn would blink as it followed its mother through the dappled woods.

"Oh, I am silly," she laughed, sitting upright and smiling gently at the astounded look on his face that quickly gave way to bemusement, then worry. "I must have fainted."

Erik decided that it would distress her unduly to hear that she had been dead, gone, not a flicker of life left in her body. So he kept his mouth shut.

But sitting there, on the floor of his cottage with Christine beginning to stumble to her feet and laughing about the egg on the back of her head, a sudden realisation swept over him, as sudden realisations often do.

He loved her.

He, Erik, a deformed monster, was in love with the beautiful princess.

How ironic.


	6. The Prince

**A/N **Really, thank you so much for your kind reviews. I'm always so happy to receive them, and yes, I am using the original Snow White story here, rather than the Disney version, as I feel it fits better.

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**Part Five**

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It was just before dinner when the stars were glittering, silver and benevolent in the sky above the castle keep. Meg was hurrying across the courtyard, the balmy night air whipping strands of golden hair loose from her cap and the Queen's plum-coloured, ermine-edged robe spilling out from her tired, aching arms.

In fact, the Queen's robe was so long and Meg was hurrying so fast, that before she could stop herself, she tumbled head over heels to the cold stone floor, the robe trailing in the dirt brought in by the many feet that had tramped through it that day.

Tears sprang to her eyes – half out of the pain of her grazed knees and half in anger, for the robe was now dirtied and torn.

"Blast it," Meg leant over, gathering the robe back into her arms, a tear trickling down her pale cheek. "Now I'll have to take that to the laundry and she wanted it tonight…"

"Are you alright, Miss?" the voice cut through the velvet darkness and Meg started, pressing a hand to her wildly-beating heart.

"Who's there?" she called.

The Prince appeared from the shadows, concern etched into his face, and Meg scrambled to her feet, almost tripping over that _stupid _robe again as she stumbled over a hasty curtsey.

"Your Highness, I didn't know it was you…"

He just smiled, and bent to pick up the robe of the floor. Meg made a sound of protest, but he ignored her, parcelling the robe up safely in his arms.

"Where is the laundry?" he asked, cordial, and Meg gaped at him. Most visiting nobles did not spare a single glance for the servants, but here he was, a prince, heir to the throne of Chagny, picking up a dirtied robe and asking for the whereabouts of the laundry. It was almost more than she could comprehend.

"Let me take that, Your Highness," she held out her arms, but he shook his head.

"No, I will. Now if you'd be kind enough…"

"Please, Your Highness, if anyone sees you carrying that robe instead of me, they'll punish me and…" Meg felt her voice hitch on her a sob, and she looked away, embarrassment creeping onto her cheeks like red paint.

"There's no-one about," he said quietly. "And if someone does come across us, I'll tell them I was admiring the Queen's robe."

Meg sighed, trying to collect herself. It had been quite a day, that was certain, and she was so exhausted, having someone else carry the robe would be a welcome rest. "Are you sure, Your Highness?"

"Yes," he smiled, and something fluttered in her chest. "You look very tired, and this is far too heavy for a little thing like you."

For once, Meg didn't bristle at what could have been condescension. It sounded more like a stated remark – she was little, and that robe weighed a thousand tonnes.

"Thank you," she whispered, suddenly overcome by the fact someone would do something so nice for her. She hadn't met a truly kind soul since she'd left her home. She began to lead him into the deserted servants' corridors. Everyone was preparing for dinner, and she could hear the clash of pots, the splash of water and the cook screaming at an unfortunate scullery maid.

The Prince easily kept pace with her, and as they ducked out into the night once more, he glanced over at her, and she couldn't help but notice just how long his eyelashes were. "I don't think we've been properly introduced, Miss."

"Well, I know who you are," she said, cursing the blunt words as soon as they spilled from her mouth. Men never liked straight-speaking girls, she'd learnt that from the time one of the footmen tried to flirt, and she told him to go and stick his head in the garderobe. Then those rumours had started, that she was cold-hearted and tough, and that no sane man would ever go near her if they didn't want a scold for a wife.

Her mortification, and the sudden sickness at those horrible memories were relieved somewhat when the Prince began to laugh, a beautiful sound that made her want to join in.

"Yes, I expect you do," he finally calmed down, and she looked up at him, her cheeks as bright as an apple and widest smile in weeks spreading across her face. He looked at her again. "But I do not know who you are."

"Meg Sorelli, Your Highness," she told him. "Lady's maid to the Queen."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Meg Sorelli. But, please, you don't have to call me 'Your Highness.' The Queen is constantly using it, and now the title just makes me laugh."

A sudden braveness coursing through her, Meg tossed her head back and adopted the Queen's low purr that the latter used when she was trying to sound seductive. "Oh, Your Highness, would you care for some stuffed veal?"

Prince Raoul laughed, so Meg continued as they rounded the wall towards the laundry-building. "Oh, Your Highness, what do you think of this new wine imported from Chandelier?"

He laughed so hard at Meg's falsely fluttering eyelashes and pretend pout that he almost tripped over the end of the robe, righting himself in the last instant.

Meg was instantly contrite, but he waved her off, still chuckling. "If I'm laughing so hard that I trip over my own feet, that's my fault, Meg Sorelli," he tells her firmly as they approach the low, bricked arch leading into the castle laundry.

They stopped outside the arch, and he was so close that she realised in this instant, she could lean up and kiss him. Instead, she snatched the robe from his arms. "Wait here," she said.

One of the washer-women was waiting in the doorway, tired circles etched under her eyes and shoulders hunched from being bent over a wash-tub all day.

"Meg Sorelli, what have you brought me now?" The woman sighed, and Meg grimaced as she handed over the pile of fur and plush, embroidered velvet.

"I tripped," she said. "Sorry."

The washer-woman rested a red, chapped hand on Meg's cheek. "It's alright. She works you too hard, that woman," she sorrowed. "You'd better be getting back to Her Uppity Majesty for dinner. Oh, if only Snow White were on the throne…"

Meg gave the woman a soft smile, and turned under the archway, looking about for Prince Raoul. He stood by the castle walls, a frown carving furrows in his aristocratic brow.

"What's wrong?" she asked, worry hanging like a lead weight in her stomach as she suddenly realised what he'd overheard. _Please don't tell the Queen, _she thought desperately.

"Nothing," he shook his head, as though to clear it of cobwebs. "Just thinking."

A nightingale began to sing as she led him through the night, stopping in the paved stones of the castle courtyard, the warm glow of oil-lamps spilling into the blackness from multitudes of windows high in the walls.

"This is where we part ways," Meg said, melancholy clouding her head at the thought of leaving. Why, she did not know – she had only known the man for half of an hour.

"Alright," he replied easily, but there were new shadows behind his blue eyes. "Thank you for allowing me to help you."

"No, thank you," she dipped a curtsey, as taught by her dancer-mother. He smiled and gave a short bow, taking her hand and brushing a kiss across the cracked knuckles, the very picture of chivalry, before he turned and disappeared into the great archway of the Great Hall.

Meg spun around for a second under the light of the stars and the windows, warmth spreading through her whole body from the point at which his lips had touched her hand.

There was a clatter on the steps, and Meg's good mood deflated like a pig's bladder popped by a pin. Her little sister was standing on the stones, bare-footed, her eyes wide and frightened, and a coal smudge like a scar across her angular cheek-bone. "Meg, Meg, the banshee's screaming for you again."

"I'm coming, Tia, I'm coming," Meg sighed, taking the steps two at a time.

Some things would never change.

* * *

It was the day after she had fainted that Christine found the trap-door in the ceiling of her bedroom. She knew, of course, that there was an attic to the little cottage, Erik having told her that there was nothing but junk stored up there.

But seeing this hairline crack in the white plaster nestled between two wooden beams made her curious, and, when Erik left after many reassurances that she would be fine, she pulled a chair up the stairs and, wobbling on unsteady tip-toes, finally got it open.

A shower of dust engulfed her, and she coughed, almost falling to the floor in a tangle of blue skirts, but caught herself just before she toppled over. Finding a ladder, she ascended into the gloom of the attic, cobwebs brushing sticky fingers against her hair, and spiders scuttling away at the presence of a human.

There was a trunk. Old, and wooden, with a bronze lock and key in the front. An old collection of fiddles, nothing like the gleaming rose-wood one in pride of place by the piano. Old books, manuscripts of dust, line sloping shelves and a battered armchair and footstool are piled in one corner.

Christine knelt before the trunk, twisted the key. Inside, there was space, where the clothes she was now wearing must have come from, a little mahogany box, and a pile of brown-paper covered notebooks. Instinctively, her hands reached for these, and she retired back to her bedroom to read, sitting with her legs crossed on the comfortable little armchair in a beam of sunlight from the window.

She opened the first book.


	7. The Books

**A/N** I decided to be nice and update again today. Thank you very much for the reviews, especial shout out to Kitkat guest reviewer. Thank you very much, I'm sorry I couldn't reply in person.

* * *

**Part Seven**

* * *

It was almost a story, penned in a childish hand with affected curls and swirls on the ends of the letters, and indeed, Christine would have taken it for a story if not for the black inscription etched upon the front page.

_The most private diaries of Luciana Rosa Giovanni._

_Read at your own peril._

Christine laughed at that, a dramatic, but ineffective deterrent to prying eyes, obviously written by a child in years gone by. Of course, she took no notice of the silly warning, flipping to the front page.

The first two books were uninteresting, detailing the life of a young, spoilt girl who seemed prone to flights of fancy, lonely in the little cottage in the woods.

The third, however, was different, and Christine felt her jaw dropping, and her doubt working its way into her heart with each passing page.

* * *

_A boy arrived last night, during the storm. I had already gone to bed, huddled in my blankets and the flickering glow of the fire whilst thunder rattled the windowpanes and the wind raged and howled outside. I had no idea of his presence until I stumbled downstairs this morning to find him sitting in my chair at the table with a torn, leather mask across his face and hands clasped around an earthenware mug of tea, steam floating into curlicues in the frozen air._

_My father was standing against the stove, and he smiled at me over the boy's head. "Good morning Luciana," he said, and the boy looked around. I swear, in that moment, I was frozen in his stare, his eyes the strangest colour of golden amber burning into me where I stood._

_"Who is this?" I asked as he glanced away, seemingly uninterested. That hurt – I, Luciana Rosa Giovanni was not used to being ignored._

_"This is Erik, my dear. He's going to be my apprentice. Erik, this is my daughter, Luciana."_

_"Pleased to meet you, mam'selle," he murmured, and again, I felt that heat creeping onto my cheeks again, staining them a becoming pink. Surely no mortal's voice could ever sound like that!_

_"And you," I said, remembering my manners as I tripped across the kitchen, releasing my hair from its night-time bondage so that he might admire the raven-blackness of it and the way it shimmered in the trembling rays of post-storm sunshine._

_They left, after breakfast, and I sat on the windowsill to write this. Oh, I wonder what is behind his mask. I wonder…_

* * *

_Why doesn't Erik like me? He's been here all summer, and I haven't got more than a single sentence at a time out of him. Am I not pretty enough?_

_I'm sitting in front of my full length mirror at the moment, scrutinising my appearance. Long wavy hair that shimmers like a starling's wing. Large green eyes set in a face like a china doll. Soft olive skin. Small. Woman's curves beginning to show. Pretty smile. What's not to like? I sing a bit, I dance a bit, I can do mathematics and writing, and I've read lots of books._

_But he still doesn't talk to me. Why? Why, why, why? _

_I've just heard them come in, talking and laughing. I'm going to go and make dinner, and try and find out something. _

* * *

_I want to know what's behind his mask. I want to know him. Papa says that it's none of my business, but I want to make it mine. He must be running from something, hiding from something, and secrecy is all very well, but a year's passed and surely he trusts us enough to tell us the truth._

_Papa says Erik's not very given to trusting. I don't know why. We're perfectly trustworthy people._

_I bet he's so handsome, that he has to hide it from everyone else they'd all fall in love with him. I bet he looks like an angel, behind the secrets._

_I think I might have fallen in love with him myself._

* * *

_I am in shock._

_I was just coming downstairs when I was meant to be asleep to collect a mug of water, and I heard them talking by the light of the fire._

_"The land of Opera," I heard my father say, incredulously. "You are telling me the truth?"_

_"Why would I lie?" Erik's voice was almost too soft to hear. "I have nothing to gain from telling falsehoods."_

_"A prince, though? Why did you leave if you were the heir to the throne?"_

_"Please don't make me tell you," I have never heard Erik plead before, and I don't like the fact he sounds so weak._

_"It's alright," my father sounds comforting, and in that moment, I wonder who he loves more. Erik, or me. "Thank you for telling me this much...you don't have to speak another word until you're ready to."_

_"Thank you." There is silence, and my heart thuds. A prince. Erik is a prince – that must be why he is wearing the mask. To prevent anyone from recognising him, not that we'd know what the royalty from Opera look like, not when everyone is gushing over the marriage of Prince Gustave to the Lady Antoinette which is to take place next year._

_"But," just as I turn to go upstairs in fear that the two will appear and find me eavesdropping. "Don't tell Luciana."_

_"Why ever not?" My father sounds perplexed, and I feel hurt knifing through me. Why does he not want me to know? Does he not trust me? I know he dislikes me (I haven't got around that yet) but surely I'm as trustworthy as my father._

_"I…I just don't want her to know. Not yet."_

_"I understand." That is the ultimate betrayal. My father, taking Erik's side against me when we've been so close for all of my childhood._

_I turned, and flounced up the stairs, thumping my feet so that they might know it was all in vain, trying to keep a secret from me. Stupid men. I swear, I am sick of them._

_I shall renounce love, and move into a convent._

_That will serve them right._

* * *

Christine closed the book, fear trembling in her mind and countless questions on the tip of her tongue. Erik was a prince. A prince of Opera…the puzzle pieces slotted easily together in her mind. If he was the Prince of Opera, then he was the Queen's brother…

How could that be? And who was Luciana, the writer of these diaries? Why was he secluded away in the forest, instead of ruling his kingdom? Why did he leave Opera?

She had never questioned it before, but now, staring at the brown-paper crinkling beneath her fingers, that one unanswerable question was burning a hole in her thoughts. Why on earth did Erik wear the mask?


	8. The Comb

**A/N **Okay, people. Next chapter already (I really should be revising. Oh well! Don't tell anyone!) Leave a little review for me. It would make me very happy.

* * *

**Part Eight**

* * *

"Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" Carlotta said idly as Meg yanked upon the strings of her corset. "Tighter, Meg, tighter."

The little maid's face was flushed with the effort as she finally tied the knots at the back, and turned away to sweep up the deep green gown with the plunging neckline from the door of the wardrobe.

"Your Most Royal Majesty," the mirror was shaking so hard that Carlotta could barely see her reflection through the ripples in the silver. "I regret to inform you that the Princess Christine Snow White is still the fairest in the land."

"What?" Carlotta screamed, pushing Meg aside so that the little maid's head was knocked into the bedpost as she approached the quaking mirror. "How can that little bitch still be alive? Why won't she stay dead?"

It was to be borne in mind that the Queen made quite the hysterical sight, shouting at a quaking mirror in her corset and hoop, with her hair piled inelegantly on top of her head, so in all honesty, it was not Meg's fault when out of tiredness and the pain of her bumped head she began to laugh.

The Queen glared at her furiously, but Meg just doubled over with tears pouring down her cheeks, leaning against the carved rosewood bedstead for support.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" she screamed. "I will not have my own personal maid laugh at me!"

She stormed over to her hysterical maid, taking the unfortunate girl by the front of her apron and slapping her twice, viciously. Meg coughed, and the laughter stopped as tears swum in her eyes, blurring her vision and her cheeks stung as though she had been burned.

The Queen's enraged face was inches from her own, and Meg suddenly realised how stupid she'd been with fear rising in her chest like the turquoise tide. "You will not be my personal handmaid any longer. Do not bother to return tomorrow."

She let Meg drop, and fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. In a moment of stupidity, she had lost her way of survival, her way to earn money for her family…because of her stupidity, her family would starve.

The Queen seated herself at her dressing table with an air of wounded dignity. "Go on," she snapped. "Send another girl to finish your job, you insolent cow. And before you leave my castle, send Buquet up to me. I must see what is to be done about our darling little princess."

* * *

Meg did not notice Buquet until his fat little fingers were around her waist, pushing her up against the side of the spiral stone staircase. "The Queen wants you," Meg said automatically, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. She had often been accosted by his drunken self, and knew all too well how to escape.

But this time, it seemed, he was neither drunk, nor willing to give up that easily. His hands tightened, and she took in short, panicked breaths, using all of her strength to try and push him off. "Get off me, Buquet. I said the Queen wants you."

"The Queen can wait." The stench of his foul breath made her want to retch as he placed sloppy kisses across the line of her jaw.

"I'll scream," Meg threatened, but then his hand was over her mouth, pressing her closer into the wall, the roughness of the stones scratching her back through her uniform.

"I'm doing you a favour, little Sorelli," his eyes had become cold as one hand came to rest possessively against her breast. She felt sick. "No other man in his sane mind would have you…"

"I would highly suggest that you unhand Miss Sorelli," the voice cut through the air like a knife, and Buquet was sufficiently distracted that Meg was able to ram her knee into his groin, side stepping as he collapsed with a shout of pain.

Blonde tendrils fell out from her cap, and her skirt was ruffled up, the petticoats and her worn, torn boots showing beneath it. The Prince stood there, his eyes hard as he stared down at the unfortunate man on the floor. "Are you alright, Meg?"

Somehow, his lack of formality made tears spring to her eyes and her knees wobble beneath her, and then his arm was around her shoulders, holding her steady. "I'm…I'm fine," she stuttered, his closeness and the scent of sandalwood making her head spin.

He narrowed his eyes, taking in the bright handprints across her cheek, but did not speak, merely turning her around and helping her down the steps, away from the still groaning Buquet.

Once outside, the fresh air did much to clear her head, and the Prince let go of her arm. "You won't see me again," Meg suddenly said, feeling knots twisting in her stomach, sadness and loneliness clouding her mind. "The Queen sacked me."

His blue eyes met hers, and he took a deep breath. "I'm leaving, anyway."

"What? I thought the Queen was talking about marriage and everything…"

"My parents want me to marry her, but I don't believe I will," he told her curtly, and for a second, joy overcame the guilt at losing her job, at being the one who would cause her family to starve. He would not marry the Queen. That was worth all the jobs in the world.

He took her hands, and she felt the calluses from riding and writing in the palms of them. When he spoke, his voice was very low. "The lords and ladies say good things about her. But I can always tell what a person is like by the way they treat their servants."

A gentle, butterfly kiss against her cheek. Then he pulled away, gave her a sad smile. "Adieu, Meg Sorelli."

He turned and walked away. And in that moment, she knew that she loved him.

* * *

She was still sitting and staring into space, her mind whirling in fevered circles when the knock came. Sighing heavily and sliding the books between her woollen blankets, she headed down the stairs, new heaviness in every step. How could he have kept such things from her?

Downstairs, she peered through the keyhole to see a young woman with hair as red as fire and a scar twisting the skin above her eyebrow waiting outside.

"Combs for sale!" her voice was as light and pretty as a feather, so Christine opened the door, once again unaware of the existence of a potion created to change one's appearance.

The young woman smiled as the door creaked open, and Christine wiped her hands against the coarse skirt of her dress, suddenly nervous for some inexplicable reason. Recently, she had noticed, her hair was becoming more and more unruly, curls growing this way and that and no amount of ribbon could keep it from falling in her face.

She had often wondered in the past few days if Erik could magically procure a comb for her as he did with so many other objects that now lined the set of rough-hewn shelves in the corner of her room. But it seemed as though her wish had come true without her having to see Erik – especially when he stomach was knotting into a tangle at the thought of confronting him.

That she would have to confront him was undeniable. How could he have hidden all of this from her…especially when…when…she got this fluttering in her chest whenever he was near, and felt sparks burn against her skin whenever he accidentally brushed against her? Was it love?

If it was, then he certainly owed her the truth.

Shaking her head, Christine took a few steps out of the safety of the doorway to where the young woman was now riffling through her wicker basket.

"I have a very beautiful comb somewhere, that would suit you very well," the young woman murmured, a frown creasing that jagged red line upon her smooth forehead. "Aha, got it."

She laid the comb in Christine's palm, and Christine gasped. Silver whirls formed the body, set with sapphires and tiny scalloped shells, with silver prongs that were long and elegant and would look picturesque nestled in her dark locks.

"This is beautiful," she said, a stab of longing in her chest. "But it looks far too expensive for me."

"Nonsense," the young woman smiled slyly and held out her hand. "Two silver pieces and a promise that you'll try it on."

Transfixed by the beauty of the comb in her hand. Christine found the required sum, and ignoring the sense of foreboding, ignoring the screams of her mind, she swept up her hair and pushed in the comb.

There was a moment of utter stillness.

Then she collapsed against the door, her knees giving way like water.

The young woman laughed, and went on her way. The Queen would be pleased.


End file.
